


i would know him in death (at the end of the world)

by orphan_account



Series: in love with you (so hopelessly and painlessly) [5]
Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Angst, Domestic Violence, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Kissing, Light Smut, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow kissing, Soft kissing, Touching, and it pops out of nowhere, ch six has violence, feeling, idk haha, if its gentle enough, its just short, its really short, maybe smut, none of that hard fast crap, omg by e, read at your own discretion loves, so everything is gentle, theres a lot of random angst, this is all about gentle, tho i love that too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4907626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.” </p><p> </p><p>(short, random ficlets because im tired of creating a new work for every couple hundred words)</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>*chapter six is rated for domestic violence. please heed this warning before reading!<strong></strong></strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. silence

**Author's Note:**

> this is short but i like it?? oddly enough??

Mark lies still, squeezing his eyes tightly and trying to get some sleep. It’s not working. He’s camped out in Chris’s bunk because technically he’s not “healed enough to leave the sick bay” just yet. Which is true, his ribs are a nightmare and Mark’s pretty sure he popped everything in his brain, considering how damn sluggish he is. His morphine has worn off so it’s an odd feeling, being half there and just not quite.

He pushes the blanket over himself in an attempt to get comfortable and sighs irritably. Everything hurts and he’s not okay.

Chris, god bless his sweet soul, offered to sleep in his own room instead of with Beth, just so he could make sure Mark didn’t die during the night. Mark greatly appreciates his concern but doesn’t like that Chris is sleeping on the floor and not a bed.

“Mark?” Comes a whisper just as Mark accidentally turns and his ribs fucking _burn_.

He grunts miserably in response.

“Hey, do you need anything?” He can hear Chris rustling about, getting up and ready to use his big doctor brain. He's a smart guy like that.

(He’s feeling _really_ weird and nothing makes much sense. Morphine is always the answer.)

“S’hurtin’” He mumbles.

More rustling.

“No more morphine tonight, I’m pretty sure I’ve given you too much.” Chris chuckles lightly, yawning.

(Check: Morphine is not the answer if Chris says so.)

“Still fuckin’ hurts.”

There’s silence and Chris sighs. It’s dark in his bunk so Mark can’t see much but he can almost feel Chris’s worry. It sinks inside his bones and settles deeply. And he loathes it.

“Do you want a few sleeping pills?” Chris asks quietly and Mark finds it in himself to halfheartedly nod. Chris seems to understand and walks away briefly, the sounds of him rummaging through his medicine cabinets echoing in the bunkroom.

The room is silent as Chris helps Mark up, leaning against the frame of his bunk as his ribs throb inside his body.

Pain.

Chris’s hands are soothing, calloused and cool, pressing into the feverish skin of Mark’s neck. He holds Mark firmly, handing him the pills and the water. Mark takes it gratefully, swallowing the pills and sipping the water. Chris helps him lay back down and Mark breathes, slow and steady. A dull ache spreads over his chest and he sucks in a sharp breath, struggling.

Chris is still standing by his bed and though Mark doesn’t know much, he can sense that Chris is hesitating. It’s only a slight hesitation before he reaches out, fingers carding through Mark’s hair. Instinctively, Mark melts, closing his eyes. Chris leans down and presses a kiss to Mark’s forehead, feather light and almost ghostly.

Silence.

“Can you --?”

“Yeah.”

Rustling.

Chris moves his makeshift bed beside the bunk, and lays back down, silent.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Mark is sick of the silence.

He starts.

“Will you --?”

“Yeah, Mark.”

Soft, breathy.

Mark lets his arm dangle from the side of the bed and Chris slips his fingers between Mark’s, gripping tightly.

Silence.

He smiles, wary and to himself with a deep sigh.

And then he sleeps.


	2. ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im swamped in homework but i took 15 minutes to write this and help clear my mind :)

Slow, deep ache. Deep, slow ache. An ache that spreads through his body, travelling against his blood and pushing out of his bones. Not a painful ache but an ache that reminds him of cold snow. Like sharp winds and teeth chattering ice. Like Chris.

It’s a Chris like ache.

And it’s almost blissful.

He considers this as Chris examines him, the pads of his fingers lightly pressing into Mark’s skin, the thin, worn skin that barely covers his bones. There isn’t much muscle to examine, Chris tells him. But he’s not listening.

He watches Chris’s mouth move, lips forming into a thin, upset frown as he explains everything, tongue running over his teeth, the top left one especially, the one slightly crooked from a bike accident.

Chris told him about it, before Mars.

Before everything.

He remembers vaguely about the bike accident.

It was the first time Chris shared something private about his life. His admittance for how much he loathed his tooth, the slightly crooked one that seemed to mar his other very nice, very straight teeth. It was a tiny flaw, something so small that Mark didn’t even consider it a flaw, not like Chris did. In fact, he didn’t even notice it.

So he kissed Chris, licked into his mouth and swallowed his quiet moans and ran his tongue over and over again over the top row of Chris’s teeth. Over his top left tooth, the slightly crooked one.

He smiles to himself.

“You’re getting better.”

He looks up.

Slate grey, clear.

(Chris’s eyes aren’t clear, they’re red rimmed and Mark is very much aware that he’s the cause of that.)

He hums in acknowledgement, hand outstretched. Chris takes it, fingers slipping between Mark’s, gripping tightly. He marvels at the contrast. 

Smooth, golden skin, slender fingers.

Bruised knuckles, cracked skin and bony fingers.

“So different.” He murmurs, unknowingly and unable to look away.

Chris holds on tighter.

They kiss for the first time since his rescue a few days later. No, not like the kisses that Chris plants on his forehead or the ones he brushes across Mark’s knuckles. But the one where he nibbles at Mark’s lips, fingers sliding through his hair and holding tightly. The ones which Mark uses to his advantage, holding onto Chris’s wrists and pressing him to the wall, tongue swiping over Chris’s teeth.

And over the top left one.

The slightly crooked one.


	3. breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he's breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at this point I'm just throwing random shit together

Breathless.

He’s breathless.

Mark inhales slowly, exhaling even slower. His ribs don’t hurt much now, not like the gut punching pain that used to be there.

He smiles.

His fingers dance across the span of Chris’s back, stopping at his tailbone and sliding over his hipbone. Chris smiles back.

“Do you want to eat something?” Chris asks him quietly, gaze flickering from Mark’s eyes and scanning his face.

Worry, sharp hesitation.

Mark shakes his head, leaning forward, pressing Chris back against the side of the bunk. He breathes out, exhaling against Chris’s cheek.

He can _feel_ the shiver run across Chris’s back.

“Would it be okay…? He trails off, licking his lips nervously, “can I kiss you?”

Chris’s fingers wrap around his wrist, maneuvering Mark’s hand onto the nape of his neck. He lets go and Mark threads his fingers through Chris’s hair.

His Adam’s apple bobs.

Chris is nervous.

“Yeah.” It’s a whisper so silent that if someone were to walk into Chris’s bunk right now, the sheer noise of that would’ve drowned Chris’s voice.

Mark leans in more, forehead knocking with Chris’s. He can taste Chris on the tip of his tongue, bittersweet, like sadness and relief. Like a lover.

It’s so easy for Chris to kiss him, the light press of his mouth becoming slightly more urgent, slightly more hurried. His fingers loop into the hem of Mark’s shirt and he pulls Mark closer.

They kiss.

And when Mark pulls back, examining the slick shine on Chris’s lips and his eyes, shy and wanting more, he kisses him again.

Softer.

Slower.

He wraps Chris’s quiet whimpers around his mind and tugs at his hair, holding him impossibly close. Chris’s hands are cupped around his jaw, fingers pressing deeply into his cheeks and flushing their lips back together.

“Kiss me harder.”

He’s helpless to that request.

And it’s easy to drink Chris in, hold him against the side of the bunk and kiss him again and again. Again until his lips are swollen and red, eyes glistening and iron grip not failing.

Again and again until Mark is breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my feels had me like ...


	4. red, red, red, blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh this one is exceptionally short I'm very sorry but i will probably update this again today so!

Chris, Mark discovers, is loud.

It’s perhaps a little surprising but mostly amusing.

But amusement turns to hunger which turns to want. The want then tranforms into an idea that Mark uses to his advantage.

_Taketaketaketake._

Chris chews viciously on his bottom lip when Mark nips at his neck. Under his jaw and just by his left collarbone. The one that drives him towards shuddering and purring softly.

Mark adores it.

He uses it to guide Chris towards soft moans, sucking lightly on the skin, rolling it between his teeth until Chris’s breath hitches and his hands tighten in Mark’s hair.

“Jesus, Mark.” Chris breathes when Mark pulls away, eyes fluttering open, pupils blown wide.

Mark smiles, cocking his head to the side and pressing his thumb into the reddening site of his hickey.

Red, red, red, blue. Mark knows in a few days it will be speckled with purple and the veins just underneath will become evident. He knows Chris will resort to high-necked shirts and flush deeply every time Mark eyes it. It makes him love the mark on Chris’s neck even more.

Chris kisses him lightly, a brief touch to his mouth but his hands slip under Mark’s shirt, roaming against the span of his back.

Fingers dance across the knobs of Mark’s spine, nails digging slowly, evidently into the muscle. Chris’s eyes are hooded and his grin is sly, secretive as he pushes Mark onto the bunk, crawling into his lap and pressing Mark’s wrists beside his ears. He cranes his neck, exposing the throbbing red skin of his collar and nuzzles Mark’s jaw.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” he murmurs, looking up and matching Mark’s gaze with his own.

His eyes, his lovely, icy blue eyes are shadowed black with arousal.

“Two can play at that game.”


	5. would you like that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh from now on if you see an update you can assume that I'm procrastinating on homework.

“You’re breathing…” a slight pause, “heavily.”

He chuckles, breathlessly, pushing aside the bangs that stick to Chris’s forehead. It’s loving, gentle.

“That’s rich coming from you.” He manages to say, pushing. Farther and farther until Chris makes a noise, sweet, like liquid sugar and delicious. He drinks it in, mouth swallowing Chris’s thin moans in a desperate, greedy way to keep them to himself.

He makes better use of his hand, wrapping it around Chris, tugging, flicking his wrist. Expertly and practiced. Again and again until Chris’s hands are tangled in his hair, tugging helplessly.

“I can make better noises for you.” Chris says, eyes lighting up in steely determination and soft adoration. His gaze is firm, steady. Like the promise of something exciting and something slightly complicated.

Mark grins, crooked and accepting, licking the ridge of Chris’s collarbone.

Salt, sweat, _Chris_.

“Would you --” he swallows back a heavy groan when Mark lifts his legs, the angle suddenly deeper and more intense.

“Would you like that…?” It’s a question, posed with an obvious answer that Mark can’t bring himself to say, not when Chris is wrapped around him, tight and hot, clenching so beautifully and making such lovely noises.

Still, in response to his shy ask and fluttering lashes, the movement of his mouth, pursed in waiting and curiosity, Mark nods.

Chris smiles, then, a soft smile wrapped in a light breeze and willowing clouds. Like the assurance that everything will be okay and a little extra. Or perhaps Mark simply is a hopelessly poetic when it comes to Chris. The one who has Mark blissful and wrapped around his finger, willing to hang the moon on a nail and the stars with sticky tape if he simply asked. But that’s okay and it will always been okay because Mark is willing to do that and so much more if Chris wants.

It’s almost cheesy in its own way but Mark _would_ and _will_ quite possibly risk life and limb if it means he can see Chris smile.

Shy and sweet, tongue running nervously over his crooked tooth.

Because Chris is Mark’s anchor, holding him down and giving him support throughout everything and anything with his hand, wrapped tightly around Mark’s and his eyes, promising and full of life.

And when Chris whimpers, liquid and genuine, ready to breathe life into his word, Mark is somehow reassured that he is also Chris’s anchor.

Weightless and infinite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> silly me, pretending i can write intimacy lmao


	6. could blood be enough to part us?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please, please read this, there is heavy angst in this and blood.
> 
> it's abuse and i don't want anyone who feels uncomfortable to read it.

“You hit me.”

His voice is hoarse, silvery and thin all at the same time. Like a void, trapped with thick astonishment and a prickle of pain.

Mark forgets how to breathe in that moment, unable to look at Chris, who has a hand pressed to the bloody spot on his forehead and instead, focuses on his hand.

Breathes.

Once.

Twice.

What did he do? Why did he do it?

He hit Chris.

Oh god, he fucking hit Chris and now he’s bleeding, standing there like a confused deer, holding his forehead and Mark can’t breathe. His world spins and he sucks in a painful breath, swallowing the dryness in his throat and succumbing to the ache in his hand.

It takes him a moment to notice that his hand is also bleeding, throbbing, actually but that’s hardly noticeable. A hole, cracked and forgotten, behind Chris’s head in the drywall and Mark suddenly drops the remnants of shattered glass that digs heavily into his palm.

A small, guttural noise.

It comes from him.

Mark steps back, shaking. His fist is tight, locking the shards of glass, which seek only to hurt him farther. He lets them.

What the fuck did he do?

“Jesus Christ.” He whispers, partially because there’s shock but also because he threw a glass at Chris, dazed, hurt Chris who is watching Mark with fear.

Fear that ignites deep within his irises and holds Mark captive because there is a steady trickle of crimson that slides down his cheek, over the angular curve of his jaw and drips onto his shirt.

And Mark is the cause of it.

He reaches forward, just barely, maybe to comfort Chris or maybe to apologize. He can’t tell, not when all he sees is his bloody hand reaching forward and the image of Chris _flinching_ burns into his mind permanently. Chris seems to get over it rather quickly and reaches over with his own hand, sticky with blood (blood that Mark caused) and hesitantly places it on Mark’s arm.

Steady, steady as he leads Mark to the bed and lets him sit. Watches him, again with his big, doe eyes, caught up in anxiety and confusion.

“You’re bleeding.” He croaks heavily, breaking the wall of panic and guilt that frantically builds itself in Mark’s mind.

Mark tries to wave him off, another gesture with his disgusting, bloody hand but Chris gets up, tripping slightly on his feet as he gets up.

 _Hurt me back,_ his mind pleads, _I fucking deserve it. I hurt you oh god._

He wants to protest when Chris comes back with his first aid kit and thrash.

_Get away from me, I’m dangerous. I hurt you and now you’re bleeding. Stop worrying about me you idiot, go fix yourself. You’re hurt, dammit._

He wants to scream and cry because he’s done something wrong, something terrible and unforgiveable but Chris is sitting beside him, dabbing the pang of medicinal alcohol over the deep grazing on his knuckles and he feels hollow.

“Don’t touch me.” He finds his voice again, thin and unaccepting. Chris doesn’t listen.

“Mark,” he says, gentle and sweet.

Not like the sound of a man who had been hit with a glass recently. Not like the sound of someone revolting against Mark for who he is and what he’s done.

“Are you alright?” It’s the question, which has Mark grabbing Chris’s wrist, fingers circling it painfully tight until Chris whimpers at the pain. He can’t help it, oh god, he _needs_ Chris to fight back.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he blinks heavily, revealing the clearness in his eyes and the mixture of puzzlement and distress and all the terrible words for hurt and then some.

“Leave me the fuck alone.”

His voice, it’s not his own. It’s empty and threatening, low with promise of more pain and he _hates_ it. He lets go and watches the blood rush to the pale skin on the underside of Chris’s wrist with steely force.

Chris puts down the antiseptic wipe and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for making an appearance, angst. most likely will be left like this unless i choose to revisit it.


	7. the wilting flower of its desperate woo

There’s jealousy.

Lots of it.

It slithers up Mark’s neck and crawls between his lips, seemingly turned down into a permanent scowl.

“What’s up?” Beth says, frowning slightly. She pushes a bang out of her face and cocks her head to the side. Mark sighs deeply, deflated and tired. She’s standing close enough that he can feel the sear of her body heat, no doubt raised by the humid atmosphere of the club and the ache of dancing.

“Fine.” He smiles pitifully and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not really fine; he’s watching Chris dance with some bulky guy from NASA’s tech mechanics department and it’s not enjoyable.

It’s dumb because he doesn’t own Chris and recalling their ‘let’s take a break’ talk, he was the one who said they needed to see others.

Well, Chris is seeing someone.

The lights are hot and white and the music is thumping against his body almost uncomfortably but none of that fucking matters because he can see Chris’s tipsy grin from where he’s sitting and suddenly he feels even more alone.

Loneliness and jealousy aren’t a good combination, not now as he swiftly swallows two more shots, coughing at the burn. He hates himself for this because Chris didn’t think they were fading, like the dead leaves on dying trees but he knew and he pushed them to the point where it became unfixable. It felt like the right thing to do at the moment, to give Chris space and let him be and to _not bother him under circumstance_ but here he is, alone and jealous because Beth had prodded and protested until he agreed to come hang out with her.

He didn’t think Chris would be there (of course he would be there, Beth and him were woven together like obnoxiously oblivious ivy) and meeting his eyes accidentally had been the single most painful thing he’d done, ever.

And of course it got worse for Mark because Beth had chatted up an old friend and Chris was busy sucking faces with the gorgeous asshole from tech mech and Mark is _still_ sitting at the bar, envious and painfully sober.

He sighs again, hollow as he pulls out his cell, texting Beth a quick goodnight. He pays for his unhelpful shots, worming his way out of the club through the mess of slick, sweaty bodies.

The night air is cool and refreshing against his dying envy, cooling the back of his neck.

Mark can’t help but wonder, wistfully and regretfully about how maybe if things were different and he hadn’t fucked up so terribly, that it could’ve been him beside Chris, licking into his mouth and pulling breathy sighs from his lime tasting lips.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on tumblr aye mates !!
> 
> boocananbarnes.tumblr.com


	8. touch me again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back at it, my terrible smut! i decided to take a break from angst bc its time to smooth things over with some sensual loving :D

Touch.

Again and again, through Mark’s hair like a gentle coax of his inner peace.

He sighs.

Chris’s fingers are tireless, stroking through the wisps of Mark’s hair, bending down and occasionally pressing a kiss to his head, fingers carding gently.

Mark lets his eyes shut and he turns his head, just slightly and kisses Chris’s collarbone, feather light. He does it again, teeth peeking out and scratching gently over, scraping at the tender skin.

Chris’s hand falters and he breathes out, breath puffing against Mark’s hair.

He slows down, just a little, alternating between teasing nips and loving suckles until the skin on Chris’s collarbone is deliciously red and aching to be ruined farther.

“Mark, babe…” His voice does the thing, the hitched, silvery thing that Mark adores. He growls lightly against Chris’s neck, using his palm to push Chris against the bed, settling on his thighs.

“Can I make you feel good…?” He murmurs with a grin, sly and sweet. Chris’s hand, the one no longer running through Mark’s hair tightens, holding on.

“Do you want that, sweetheart?” He continues, peppering kisses along Chris’s jaw. He licks a stripe back down his jaw, capturing Chris’s mouth.

He tastes like lifesavers, the fruity ones, tangy and sweet (the movie is finished and the wrappers lie close to the bed but their taste still lingers), on the roof of his mouth. Mark chuckles lowly, through the base of his throat and pulls away briefly, swiping his tongue across the seam of Chris’s mouth. His lips, soft and sweet part and Mark manages to pull a strained moan from them.

“Fuck,” Mark breathes out, “you’re so gorgeous.”

Chris’s fingertips press into the base of Mark’s skull, gripping lightly. Mark pulls away, shedding his shirt and helping Chris slip out of his, hands roaming attentively over his trim waist.

It’s always been like this, for some reason. Mark’s physique has always full of muscle and strength. But Chris has always been lean and lithe and still retained a surprising amount of muscle as well.

He thinks about this as he observes the planes of Chris’s shoulders, unable to resist leaning down and sucking a new mark. A mark that stays hidden and behind clothing until Mark has the pleasure of stripping Chris down and revealing all the proud marks he’s left behind.

Chris is half hard by the inside of Mark’s thigh, arms ready around Mark’s neck, pulling him in closer.

“If you don’t fuck me in the next five minutes, I’ll do it myself.” He mumbles, threatening and slow against the corner of Mark’s mouth.

Mark chuckles and nods, kissing Chris’s cheek, affectionate and slow. Either way, it will end admirably for Mark.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, i just wanted to put out there that i do want to take requests because i love writing this pairing but unfortunately i am not a very creative person! so if you want something written (maybe, bc ik most of u r all "what is this crazy hooligan doing with her life???") please do tell me!!


	9. is it okay if it's for you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I really enjoyed reading these. Short but sweet (or angsty) :) can I suggest you write something where one of them gets minorly hurt or something? And the other patches them up? Idk you don't have to just a thought I had :) Anyway I really liked these!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey I'm back with more angst surprise motherfuckers. i chose to set this in an AU universe (well thats what i wanted but it sounds vague enough to be in post-mars :D) and i spun my own twisted tale from the humble prompt!
> 
> hope you enjoy! xx

Ah, there it is.

The sting of alcohol.

The curses under Chris’s breath.

Gentle, irritated jabs of an alcohol soaked washcloth against his forehead and more curses.

Mark sighs, deflated.

He knows Chris is pissed but he can’t explain himself right now. Maybe later, when Chris is finished fussing and actually open to listening.

That’s the thing with Chris. He’s a cool, calm person. But he can’t stand it when Mark hurts himself. It’s a flattering notion to Mark, all seriousness aside but even then, he feels guilty.

It’s a gut wrenching feeling because seeing Chris’s lips pulled into a tight frown and the furrow of his brows just tells Mark he’s fucked up.

“It’s like you purposely throw yourself into these type of situations.” Chris says finally, throwing the blood and antiseptic damp washcloth into the sink with a slick, _fierce_ splat.

He sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand over his chin. Mark shrinks back, further and further into the toilet seat.

There’s silence.

He softens, taking a seat on the edge of the tub.

One hand on Mark’s thigh.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Then _why the fuck_ were you picking fights?” He says sharply, oddly empty and not harsh. There’s no bite to his words, just stale disappointment and frustration.

Mark shrugs.

He knows what he did and why the fuck he did it. He knows it and every detail that comes with it and to be honest, unless he wants to break the bathroom, he’s not going to think about it.

It’s dumb and stupid, the way his brain works. The way he relates everything back to Chris, who specifically told Mark _not to move until he grabbed his jacket_ but Mark did it instead.

Even though Chris had a warning look in his eye as he jogged back into the house (Mark and alcohol at a sleazy house party never worked), the damage had already been done. Sure, Mark could handle a drunk, homophobic asshole catcalling at Chris.

By handle he means crushing his beer can into an oblivion and slamming all his common sense into the dirt.

But as soon as he touched Chris, as soon as he’d _pushed_ Chris into his body, slightly tipsy Chris who didn’t even realize what the fuck was happening, Mark couldn’t handle it.

It’s like his hand moved faster than his mind and all Mark could see was his vision clouding with hot, fiery, _red_.

And then he got hit in the head with a beer bottle.

“He was…” He croaks.

Trails off.

“I didn’t like – ”

“I know.”

“ _Do you…?_ ”

“I didn’t like it either.”

Quiet. Hushed. Like an unsteady confession of 500 words in just 5.

“I’m sorry.” Breathless, hands linking tightly.

Chris smiles, tired and heavy, thumb running soothingly over Mark’s knuckles. He shudders, melting into his touch.

“You really socked him.” He chuckles dryly.

More silence.

“C’mon, we should go to bed.” Chris chews on his lip, letting go of Mark’s hand briefly.

He pauses, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Mark’s mouth.

Fleeting and ghostly.

Mark accepts it.


	10. colours of a sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just something i wrote bc i thought it was time for marriage with touchy feely vague smut in the morning.

It’s early.

The sunlight streams steadily through the leaks in the curtains, dancing over the curve of Chris’s jaw.

Mark smiles.

“Why are you watching me sleep?”

He chuckles, brushing the stray bangs out of Chris’s face.

“Mornin’.” He murmurs, kissing the top of Chris’s head. Mark shuffles deeper within the covers, letting his body be comforted by the contact of Chris’s bare skin against his, warm and _real_.

He lets his hand wander under; fingertips splayed across Chris’s thigh and suddenly, he smiles again.

Chris blinks sleepily, smiling crookedly, the corner of his mouth upturned and seeping with morning tiredness. He tilts his head back, exposing the dark bites on his neck, a bruising red from last night.

Mark can’t help but smile again.

“Look at you.” He marvels, under his breath and mostly to himself.

Chris flushes, shoving the covers tightly over himself and nuzzling closer to Mark’s chest.

It’s like that, as if he’s falling in love all over again. It’s slow, like the sun, setting slowly and revealing it’s colours, the lazy purple and the hazy orange.

It’s Chris whom he loves, the way he laughs nervously; tongue flickering over the top left tooth, the crooked one. And it’s this moment he’s fallen in love with as well. With Chris, who is breathing softly, the collar of his neck bitten and red with a smile, mellow and soft. With Chris who’s hair is ignited into a fiery halo caused by the light through the windows, the light that illuminates his cheekbones and covers his fluttering lashes with the sweeping bow of its shadows. He’s falling in love to the beat of Chris’s heart and the flush upon his cheeks.

“Marry me.” He blurts, unconsciously but still, all too truly.

Chris looks up, gaze flickering over Mark’s, eyes holding his with a steely, steady contact. He laughs lightly, nervously, with a small hitch and a crack.

“You better not be fucking with me.” He says plainly, running a hand through his hair.

A halo, but mussed.

“Never.” Mark murmurs, looking away briefly. He looks back to the same eyes, startlingly blue and winded, like shiny glass, glistening with unshed tears.

“Okay.” Chris breathes, mouth pursed into a slight ‘o’. He slips a hand under the covers; resting over the one Mark has on his thigh, linking their fingers. He holds on tightly, forehead knocking against Mark’s.

Chris looks up, through dark lashes and all the thoughts on uncertainty and plain hesitation, nodding once more.

“Okay.”

Breathes.

Once.

Twice.

Mark nudges his chin, kissing him deeply. Through all the ache of mornings and the love from last night. He coaxes a gasping moan and soft whimper from Chris’s lips, pale pink and soft.

“I’m so glad – ”

He stops, kisses the corner of Chris’s mouth again. He lets his hands roam over the span of Chris’s back, tinkering over the knobs of his spine with a sigh.

“C’mere.”

It’s so easy to pull Chris on top of him, one finger slipping inside, fleeting.

Chris gasps again, a breathy, croaky kind of sound that drives Mark _insane_.

“So good to me…” Mark grunts heavily when Chris moves, tight and blissful around him. Mark wraps his fingers around Chris, tugging and swiping his thumb until Chris whines, needy and soft.

“I love you.” He manages, through soft sobs and genuine tears, rocking closely against Mark and on top of him. Fingers, thin and strong, gripping at Mark’s biceps as he moves, up and then down, slowly and sensually.

Mark groans, nodding to himself because yeah, he loves Chris. Loves him so much.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He pants when Chris shakes, crying out softly as he comes, sticky over Mark’s fingers.

Mark thrusts up, a few more times before he comes, sighing deeply and riding it out.

He pushes the covers up again, over Chris’s body on top of him, fingers carding through his hair.

Mark falls asleep like that, to the colours of a sunset and the hazy sunlight creating a halo over Chris’s hair. He falls asleep falling in love again.


	11. cherry lipstick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise its angst. i haven't been on top of updating but i just wanna say I'm so so glad and so happy with all the positive feedback and comments i get on these short fics! its honestly what encourages me to write! remember, you can always come chat me up on tumblr (boocananbarnes.tumblr.com) and we can discuss everything lmao.

He’s confused.

It hurts to be drunk like this, eyes unfocused and fingers gripping the woman’s arm, holding on tightly. He doesn’t know who she is but she has nice lips and her lipstick tastes like cherries. It stains Mark’s collar and over his jaw and he doesn’t want more. It’s odd, the mouth against his doesn’t feel like it belongs. She has shimmering brown hair and blue eyes; elusively familiar.

It’s vague in the back of his mind but clear enough; Mark has someone else. He doesn’t taste like cherry lipstick but he has a soft mouth and the stains he leaves on Mark’s neck are a red of a different kind and more permanent. His hair is darker, like chocolate and his eyes are bluer and more brilliant. They cut through the fog in his mind and the woman’s shimmering hair and blue eyes become plain.

Chris.

_Hehassomeoneelseandhisnameischris._

Mark pulls away from the woman, like her touch burns and reaches out, slamming his empty glass back down on the bar. It’s hard, remembering why he’s here and not at his apartment, in his bed. With Chris.

The floor beneath him seems to whirl around and it takes him a second to focus but by then he’s already pulled out his wallet.

Credit cards. Money. Loose change. A picture.

A worn out picture, years of love and affection have faded away the colours but it’s just as clear as in Mark’s mind as it is in his wallet.

Chris is smiling, hair damp to the background of beach sand and crystal water.

He has someone else.

Mark begs his mind to remember this as he stumbles out of the club, shoving himself through the mass of slick, sweaty bodies and into the clear air of downtown Chicago.

It’s harder to remember why he’s here. It comes back slowly, like the breeze on a hot day, unable to provide anything until suddenly the wind is whipping and _it all hits Mark at once._

They fought. A lot.

He signals a taxi.

He remembers gripping Chris’s arm, pushing him to the wall. There were words. Lots of them. Hurtful words that struck fear and pain across Chris’s features. They were returned, just as terribly. They left a hollow inside Mark, momentary and brief until he pulled away from Chris’s shaking body and backed out of the apartment.

Alcohol and unknown kisses were enough to fill the hollow in his heart.  
He wants to go back now, though. Mark wants to forget and slide into his bed. He wants to sleep forever beside Chris and never touch another bottle of alcohol again.

It’s a grimy feeling, he realizes as the taxi pulls up in front of his ( _and Chris’s_ ) apartment complex. He feels dirty and covered in crude lipstick.

(It’s because _he is_ fucking disgusting and covered in the lipstick of an unknown woman.)

It takes him a solid minute to fumble with his key and stick it in correctly, surprised mildly at how agile he feels while being so piss drunk. It’s going to hurt in the morning but not the way his heart hurts right now. Nothing hurts worse than his heart.

The shower is scalding and his neck is a blistering red from tireless scrubbing.

Cherry lipstick is nothing but a thought at the back of his mind and vodka is a painful reminder of it.

( _Remains of the lipstick are gone but he still feels dirty._ )

Brushing his teeth proves to be an impossible task but the taste of her tequila coats the back of Mark’s tongue and he _wantsneedswishes_ it gone. It’s not comforting but he’s too drunk and eventually he gives up and shuffles into the kitchen.

The apartment looks untouched and unmoved just the same as when he left, anger and emotion clouding what little judgment he possessed at the time. Mark drinks a glass of water with shaky hands and sighs.

Chris’s body is hunched in the bed, curled into one side (Mark’s side) of the bed, blanket wrapped tightly around him. He’s still wearing his sweater and jeans, hair mussed tiredly and breathing even.

Mark can feel the tear tracks (tight and like a stain of Mark’s uncontrolled words) under his trembling fingers. Chris moves slightly, eyes blinking open, slowly. They widen and he reaches up, fingers outstretched and hesitant.

“I thought – ” he croaks, voice raspy and low.

Mark stops him, forehead nudging against Chris’s, pulling Chris into a hug. He smells familiar and like comfort so Mark inhales deeply, clutching him tighter.

“Oh god…”

“I know.”

“I didn’t think – didn’t think you wanted to come back –”

Mark lets his heart hurt some more, lets Chris’s words tug at his frayed heartstrings before he makes a small noise.

Chris won’t be the only one with tear tracks to show in the morning.

“Sleep, sweetheart.” He murmurs, laying back on the bed. The pillow is soft and Chris’s weight against his side is solid and a sense of reality.

It feels wrong and unfaithful but Mark lets himself be lulled into an anxious sleep, one hand in Chris’s hair and the other pressed into the crescents left on his arm by the woman with shimmering hair and blue eyes and her manicured nails.


	12. part two of the last one lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I've decided to end this series of ficlets off and hopefully focus on an actual fic :) the last couple chapters haven't had much love as the others so thats why i decided to end it off earlier than i had planned. i kind of got the gist that it was tiresome to read the same type of fic over and over again :)

He’d never assumed Chris was oblivious.

He’s just forgotten how observant he was.

Mark stirs the pot, reaching for the knife. A little more garlic.

He murmurs under his breath and chops some, fine and quick.

“I know what you did.” Chris blurts from the kitchen table. Mark slows his chopping, putting down the knife carefully. He wipes his hands and turns around.

His heart, beats quicker. He knows what he did as well.

“I’m not stupid,” Chris mutters and then looks up, “I could smell her perfume.”

He looks dazed for a moment, remembering and then snaps his fingers, “not,” he pauses, “not because of you, I – I know you took a shower. But because in the morning,” he pauses again, the kitchen simmering in the steam of bubbling pasta and silence, “the entire kitchen reeked of her perfume.”

Another pause.

“It smelled nice, though.”

Mark swallows nervously, the faint flames of uneasiness and guilt licking through his throat and choking his tongue. He can’t speak.

It’s okay, though, because Chris speaks up for him.

“I don’t mind, though.” He says quietly, gaze flickering to Mark. His eyes are tired, soft and dead. Like he knows he’s lost the battle but he’s still around. Somehow.

He gets up.

One hand on Mark’s shoulder.

On instinct, Mark’s hand goes to his waist, holding on.

“It’s okay.” He repeats, another form of his previous sentence and then presses a trembling kiss to Mark’s cheek.

“It’s okay, I still love you.” He licks his lips, smiling crookedly. It’s small and forced but still genuine.

It confuses Mark to no end.

“Chris, I…” He stops, lets his mind wander and scream, scrape at his thoughts for a useless apology or something. To muster up something and say it to Chris, who so wholly and opening forgives Mark.

It’s too easy and unacceptable.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” He says finally and then looks away, disgusted.

Chris shakes his head abruptly and chuckles thinly, “I know.”

A lost cause.

“But it’s okay, Mark,” another kiss, gentle and loving, “I still love you.”

_They are a lost cause._

“Okay,” he breathes anyway, “okay…”

Hot water jumps from the pot and onto the stove.

It sizzles and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, hope u guys enjoyed it! as always, feedback is appreciated immensely :)

**Author's Note:**

> anyway i hope you like it??? find me on tumblr and we can cry about these nerds together (boocananbarnes.tumblr.com) :D
> 
>  
> 
> (also I'm thinking of writing a soulmate au bc babies but u know I'm not good at that crap so...)


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